


can anybody save me (from myself)

by aliferously



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Choking, Drowning, Gen, Hanging, Repression, anorexia/starvation, basically like, cuts/cutting, i wrote this in one sitting and WOW love it, if you've seen the art, restraints such as chains and ropes, sexual references (Remus being Remus), some warningsss:, spider mentions, suffocation, that's what it'll be, vomiting/nausea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23863234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliferously/pseuds/aliferously
Summary: based on@altruistic-skittles'snightmareseries on tumblrEssentially, the sides are all stuck in their nightmares -- broken, tied up, helpless, or all of the above.(I recommend checking the art before reading the fic -- the visualization is a lot easier, also, the art slaps)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	can anybody save me (from myself)

Virgil’s drowning in exhaustion, and it’s _Thomas’s fault_. 

He reaches, he reaches, he reaches. Sludge shifts, his feet buried, viscous blackness seeping and sticking to his skin. 

Heaving, Virgil reaches. Palms scrap against rough stone. He can barely feel it -- he knows, absently, that his skin should be torn and bloody. But all he can feel is heavy, all he knows is the empty light above him and the thick dark below. 

_Help me. Help me!_

But they’re just _standing._ They’re standing, immobile, dozens of hundreds of _thousands of feet --_

Virgil grunts, a whisper of a word falling from his lips. He latches to the rock, pulling and pushing and _climbing_ away from the sludge, the ever present sludge. It pulls at his clothes. It connects to him. _Where does Virgil end and the slime begin? Is it slime at all -- is it merely Virgil, desperate?_

He can’t look, he can’t look down. If he looks down all he’ll see are the thoughts that _caused this whole thing_. All he’ll see is him, reverting back to his old ways. Him, hurting Thomas. 

In the horror, in the pain, tears of exhaustion pricking at his eyes, Virgil catches sight of the mirror once again. 

“No.” Virgil squeezes his eyes shut. “No no no NO.” He can’t look. The sludge drags him down, Virgil opens his eyes. He sees his old hoodie, _nothing, nobody_ , he sees his -- friends? -- high above him, bathed in light. Their features are blurred. Virgil chokes, spits. Blackness flies from his throat. He takes another handhold. Is he moving at all?

_Does it matter?_

As long as he doesn’t move _down, he can’t move down--!_

His foot slips and he cries out, fingers scrabbling for purchase. His chin clacks harshly against the stone, teeth rattling to his brain. Hasty, horrified energy flashes through his veins and he slices his hands open in his efforts. 

He doesn’t care. He can’t move down. 

The mirror flashes in his peripheral vision.

_Purple and black and grey and absolutely, absolutely nothing._

Arms shaking, legs jelly, Virgil pulls himself up an inch. Breaths pass through his lips in rapid pants, shaking, inconsistent. He pulls, slips, drags. The sludge grabs at him, pulling, sliding, dripping. 

Virgil sobs, open and heavy. The tears fall thick and dark, and he clings to the rock, fighting. He can’t stop. He can’t fall back into who he was. He needs to be -- _someone_. 

He can’t be a nobody again. He _can’t, not when he knows people like him, right? They’re --_ he can’t breathe, but he drags up another inch. He’s almost to the place he was before he slipped. 

The mirror’s cracked, jagged slashes through his old jacket. 

Virgil grits his teeth. He reaches. 

He’s drowning, and it’s _all his fault_. 

-

Remus is mindless. He has no words, no metaphors, no sickly comments. 

What’s the point? 

He stares out the window. Is someone there, in the room with him? 

It doesn’t matter. If there is, Remus will not turn around. If there isn’t, Remus will still not turn around. 

He has tried. He has tried time and time again. This is not his nightmare. 

~~_Is it?_ ~~

This is not his nightmare -- he sits. He waits. ~~_For what?_ ~~

It’s _his_ imagination, out there. But it’s _raining_ \--

He seeks for that indignation, that spark that lights in his lungs and leads to strong stances, new ideas. It’s raining, he _hates_ the rain. 

The emotions slide from his fingers like they were never there in the first place. 

Which, _were they?_

He’s waiting. 

For… 

Would the others laugh, at the vines crawling in his castle? Would _Roman?_ Would he laugh, seeing the --

_ropes and spotlights and chains_

\-- the chains wrapped around Remus’s wrists? 

Or would he laugh because Remus isn’t doing anything to escape from them? 

_He’s tired_. Sort of. He’s mostly _blank._ Like the rain washing everything away. 

He shifts. There’s a simile. Creativity running in the base of Remus’s mind. Just for him. 

_Only for him._

Will Thomas wake? Is this just what Remus has done, will continue to do, will ever do? 

He wants to want to try. But that’s not enough. 

_It never is_. 

-

Patton’s trying. That’s all that counts, right? That’s what matters? 

_NO, of course not! Of course not!_ Trying doesn’t matter, not if you don’t get the right _results_ . Patton knows someone’s staring at him and he can’t breathe, his hands are tied, there’s nothing he can do. Thomas is slipping, he’s fraying, _no, no, NO--!_

What is--

Patton can’t take a breath. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. If he breathes, the strings will move. He cannot move. He cannot shift from his place. 

_Thomas is a GOOD PERSON._ Patton _knows_. So as long as he _doesn’t move_ , as long as he doesn’t _change, EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY_. 

See, the thing is -- the funny thing is, he can’t see. He can, he can see -- but he can’t. He can’t? 

There’s shimmering, of course, and the feeling of strings cutting into his wrists and arms and his skin is a little wet, there may or may not be red glistening against a pale complexion. But he can’t really see it. 

Plus, the assortment of his _friends_ …

If he lets them fall, then he’s a _failure_. Thomas is a good person. He needs to keep Thomas thinking -- keep Thomas… _thinking that he’s good?_

_No!_

Thomas -- Thomas _knows_ that he’s good. Patton makes sure of it! He tries, and that -- that doesn’t matter, but he tries and mostly _succeeds--!_

Thomas is falling, he's falling and there’s nothing Patton can do about it, everything is falling apart at the seams and Patton can’t breathe because if he breathes then the strings will move and shift and _change_ and Thomas requires that Patton does. Not. Change. 

_Thomas is a good person!_

Patton is… 

Patton is… 

Where are his glasses? Somewhere up, maybe? 

There’s Roman and Remus and Logan and Deceit and _Thomas_ , all woven into Patton’s little web. A lump rises in Patton’s throat. He doesn’t want to be here _doesn’t want to be here_ but Thomas -- Thomas _needs_ him here. He needs him. Thomas needs to know that Thomas is a good person. 

_(Patton is… a good…)_

Patton can’t breathe. 

No, he can breathe. He’s just…

He’s just… 

He’s trying really, really hard not to.

-

Logan wonders, briefly, if he should be grateful, before everything falls away. 

Because the moment before the unplug, the moment after a _shattering_ , the moment, the feeling, the breath of air and the weightlessness -- the moment is _everything_. 

Because after the moment, he is nothing. He is static. He is an empty page, a blank canvas. Not of possibility. _He’s not possibility_. He’s the moment when you realize everything is deleted. When you find out all is for naught. He’s everything, and nothing, the slide of static in between. 

The moment before, everything is frantic, full of --

_he needs to get out and help he needs to help he needs to speak and assist and rise up, he needs to solve the problem, he needs to get out_

\-- and then he shattered into a million pieces. 

No, that’s not right. 

Something shattered, certainly. But it wasn’t him. 

He just… 

_unplugged_. 

The moment before, his mouth gaped open, he reached for his head, a weird sort of painless buzzing in his bones. Everything ran _error_ and _no code detected_. His glasses gone, sight bleary, falling -- 

Falling? 

Floating -- 

Existing -- 

_Being…?_

Is he -- 

There’s a static. 

But the moment before the nothing, the moment before everything went sideways -- rightways? -- wrongways, he thinks: _isn’t this what you wanted? To have no emotion, to be, as it were, absolutely nothing? Merely pure logic, an aid?_

He needs words. He needs -- he _needs words_. 

But the moment passes, and after that, he doesn’t think of anything anymore. 

No words, no sentences, no fragments. 

Just plain, empty, vacant static. 

-

This is Roman’s problem. This is _only Roman_ , all him. Nobody else. 

Centerstage. Spotlights on. 

_Time to shine_. 

But he’s choking. He can’t speak, _can’t sing_. What sort of principle role is he? One who can’t move? 

_THERE’S A ROSE RIGHT THERE, JUST FOR HIM._

Roman wants to reach for the rose but first he needs to -- the rope’s around his neck. Fury and frustration pulsate in his veins. Frantic, hasty energy is dashing all hopes of composure. He needs that rose, he needs to breathe, he needs to _act_. 

The audience is waiting. 

The rose sits heavy in his mouth. 

Feet chained, locked to the stage. _Right where he wants to be_. Where he deserves to be! The only thing that dozens of -- hundreds -- thousands -- _millions_ of people are looking at! 

_Nobody will look at him._

But Roman doesn’t know, he can’t tell how many people are in the audience. Just that there _are_ . Everything is bright on stage, and he can only see -- well, the only -- he can see _himself_ , and he’s _choking_. 

Choking under the pressure. 

_Try harder, do better_. 

Roman pulls and pulls and pulls, skin stretching taut, his neck being squeezed like a vice. He can’t stop pulling, can’t stop trying, can’t stop can’t stop _won’t._

One hand tugs uselessly at the ropes circling his neck, the other helpless, waving through the air. Tears stream down his face, trickling across his jawline and slipping around his lips. Salt echoes on his tongue. 

Distantly he remembers losing his sash, he remembers dancing and singing and falling and tripping. His outfit torn open, his shoulder pads ripped off. He remembers, he remembers, he remembers… 

He remembers failure. 

_He needs to do better_. 

The others were in the audience, right? Would they support him? 

_No, not really_. 

To laugh, then? To point and jeer and giggle at what he’s become? 

No, Roman won’t allow it! He’s the main event, he’s--!

Roman’s gasping. He recognizes, dimly, the importance of air, of keeping one’s neck clear of rope-like objects. But it’s a distant realization in the same way he knows this is a nightmare -- scarcely at all. 

Right now, everything that’s happening -- this is _real_. This is real this is absolutely _real_. And it’s Roman’s issue. 

Roman can fix it. He can fix it. 

He pulls at the rope, lips gaping. 

He can fix it. 

-

Deceit knows exactly where he is. He knows exactly what’s happening, too. Knowing the difference between truth and lies is basically his job, anyway. 

There’s no point in moving, so he stays exactly where he is. 

Deceit will be proud until he fades into nothingness. Who is he, if not that? If not the whisper of pride in your ear when you know you’re in the wrong? 

Since Virgil claims the many distortions lying about Thomas’s faults, the lies about Thomas’s _successes_ fall directly to Deceit. He’s the promise of everything being _okay_. Patton loves that one. 

But Thomas doesn’t. He doesn’t love Deceit. 

It shows, in the lack of appearance. In the entropy of muscle. The notable lack of fat lining Deceit’s bones. 

Deceit doesn’t eat. None of the sides need to. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t lie to himself about being human. He’s _not_ human. He’s a facet of a human. Thomas.

He is _Deceit,_ first and foremost. This lacking body has nothing to do with it. 

This is a nightmare, though. He can’t really do much. He can’t climb, can’t move. Can’t whisper sweet nothings into Thomas’s waiting ear. 

Deceit knows his worst nightmare. Which is why being thrown into it is not much of a surprise. 

Deceit doesn't _lie_ to himself. He knows. He _knows,_ starkly. 

Which is why he feels a certain level of calm, in this situation. Knowing himself fully, straight to his brittle bones, aids him in this nightmare Thomas has concocted. 

Deceit is thrown in with the same amount of knowledge as the other sides (who are, he knows -- suffering. He knows, because he wants to lie about it. He wants to say this is just a joke, a prank from Remus or -- someone. But of course, if Deceit knows the lies, he knows the truths, too). 

He’s not chained to anything. The chains being on his person or off is meaningless, so of course, they taunt him from their walls. They climb to the tops of the room and disappear. _Don’t you want to climb them? Don’t you want to escape?_

And with no energy… Deceit can’t climb him. Which is why, of course, this is a _nightmare_. 

He’s collected. This is nothing new. 

What else can he do, but sit? Spread out, cocksure. It doesn’t matter if Deceit's body deteriorates. He is still _Deceit._ He’s still a part of Thomas. 

His identity will drag him outside of his nightmare. 

-

Thomas runs. He’s running. He’s -- he trips, he falls, he gets back up. The room is long, then short, then small, then cavernous. It has red -- brown -- dark walls. It has … _a floor_ , Thomas doesn’t _know_ , he’s just _running._

From… 

Something! 

So what if he doesn’t know what it is? It’s loud and scary and -- absolutely, one hundred percent silent. There’s scraping of nails, or -- something, no, not really. Limbs dragging along the ground…? Chains? The swish of a rope? Crackle of electricity, the shattering of glass?

Complete silence. 

But Thomas can’t stop running. He won’t stop. There’s a flashlight in his hand and it shakes like he’s trying morse code. _SOS_ . Please help. _Help him!_

What’s _happening?_ Where is he? 

All he knows, all he’s ever known is this pounding, aching pain in his heart. The rapid beats, the slapping of his feet against the floor, the huffs of his breaths, and how everything, absolutely everything, is dead quiet. 

Thomas makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, like a whine, or a cry for help, and can’t hear anything. 

There’s nothing, then there’s something, then he’s on the ground. He crawls, trying to push himself upright. Everything’s blurry, the flashlight flickering around. He can’t see anything, then sees with startling clarity, fear rising in his throat because no, _no_ , NO, this can _not be happening, NO--! NO._

Thomas stumbles, grabbing the flashlight and slamming face first into a wall. He tries to stand, falls. 

Trembling, Thomas turns. The flashlight holds perfectly steady despite his violently shaking hands. Thomas backs up, backs up, backs up. The thing -- the nothingness -- the monster before him grins, points a long finger. 

Thomas shakes. Body wracking with tremors, Thomas stares, wide-eyed, fear thick and heavy on his tongue. The monster is -- the monster is --

Thomas can’t run anymore. He can’t run from… from… 

Thomas screams. He wants to drop the flashlight but he can’t move his arm, the light bright and illuminating. The monster is grinning -- then it isn’t -- then it’s teeth are glinting, then it’s just seeping black sludge. 

Thomas grins. 

No, no, the _monster_ grins. But Thomas doesn’t -- he _screams_ , and doesn’t hear a note. The monster opens its mouth, Thomas’s lips fall shut. Thomas hears his scream echo from the monster’s mouth, sounding shrill and three notes _wrong_ , the monster grinning the whole while. 

Thomas, shaking, tries to stand. 

The monster takes a step backwards. Thomas can’t -- _wait_ , why is the monster --

The monster’s expression morphs into one of fear. Abject terror shines in the monster’s brown eyes. The monster opens its mouth and screams with Thomas’s voice. Thomas stumbles upright, the monster stumbles backwards, a flashlight -- Thomas’s flashlight settled heavily in the monster’s hands, the monster’s -- _no, no--_

The monster turns and runs. 

Thomas opens his mouth. 

Everything is quiet. 

-

Virgil realizes what he needs to do. He knows. He’s well versed in doing what he’s uncomfortable with. He’s well versed with change. 

So he lets go. 

-

Remus stares. He blinks. Cocks his head. The thunder echoes, lightning flashing purple. 

He wonders. 

-

Patton feels the shiver. A weight tips. 

He doesn’t move.

-

A spark of _something_ in Logan’s brain. He thinks: what if? 

And then everything fades once more.

-

Roman cannot hear anything but his own breaths in his ear. He does not know what is happening. He is pulling, he is trying. 

He is failing. 

-

Deceit exhales. 

One.

-

Thomas, the monster, the room -- everything is shifting and changing. Thomas doesn’t know if he’s running or chasing. 

He just keeps going.

-

Virgil sinks into the sludge. He lets himself fall. He stops reaching for the stars. 

The moment the slime closes over his ears, he can finally breathe. 

Everything is still and quiet. He’s not nervous. He doesn’t fear. This is him; he is his past, but he is also his future. He is everything and nothing -- he is exactly who he wants to be. 

“I am not going to disappear.” 

The sludge falls from his skin, sliding like water off oil. He can see the mirror, no longer cracked. It shows his old hoodie. It shows his old self. 

Virgil touches the glass, cold against fingertips. 

Then he walks away. 

There’s a terrible storm. Virgil’s walking through it, rain drenching his jacket. Lightning flashes, brilliant and violet. He keeps walking. There’s a smudge of grey against the horizon he needs to reach. 

Virgil inhales. He exhales. 

The castle appears in a flash of electricity. Virgil peers up at the window, rain falling in his eyes. _Who?_ Who’s nightmare is rain and weather, a grey, nondescript castle?

_Creativity, surely._

Virgil enters the palace through a rotting door that falls off its hinges when he touches it. There are stairs, lopsided and chipped, that he climbs, one at a time. The top is dark, then it isn’t, and he sees someone’s back. 

Green and black, grey chains dripping along the floor. 

Virgil can’t bring him out of his nightmare. 

But he can try. 

So he walks forwards and breaks the chains. 

Remus stares at him. At the water dripping in his eyes. Breaking the chains isn’t enough. Virgil being there isn’t enough. But Remus stares, and remembers, and thinks. He says, “wow Virgil, you’re so wet for me,” and looks surprised. Pink returns to Remus’s cheeks, a tentative delight glittering in his eyes. “I truly wish this was a different scenario, possibly with the chains around _your_ wrists.” 

Virgil rolls his eyes. The storm outside abates, a stench like no other filtering through the window. _None other than Remus would make it smell worse after rain._

“You’re not the only one.”

“Of course not,” Remus says. He winks, and it feels starkly out of place in this nightmare. “You get around.” 

“Are you coming with?” 

Remus stares out the window. He watches a cloud. “Eventually.” 

Virgil nods. He turns, walks down the stairs. Remus doesn’t follow him, but Virgil knows. He knows when he’ll see him. 

Virgil has a few others, first. 

He exits the castle, takes a few steps. He walks right into a spider’s den. 

Patton stares at him, fear shining brilliant and stark. He opens his mouth, closes it. Virgil hears what he’s saying anyway. _It’s not what you think. It’s not my fault! I’m not hurting you. I’m -- not trying to hurt you. I’m trying!_

Virgil steps into the web. The strands cut through his skin, blood welling. He ignores it, takes another step. The strands start to snap. 

“No--!” Patton makes an aborted movement then freezes as the dolls move and shift. 

Virgil takes a step. His doll falls, fading into oblivion. Patton cries out, tears stark, dripping. Remus tumbles into the darkness. 

“Stop, they’re--” Patton reaches for the other dolls, fingers brushing just shy of Roman’s shoulder. Roman’s doll jerks, strands snapping, and drops. It catches on another strand, balancing precariously. 

Patton freezes. He stares at the doll, stares at Virgil, eyes pleading. 

Virgil shakes his head and takes another step. 

Roman falls. Deceit, Logan. One by one. 

“No, no, no.” Patton reaches for them all, fingers bloody. He’s tearing through his arms, cheeks sliced, stomach lined. Tears line the webs surrounding him. “Virgil, _no_ , they’re--” Patton turns to him with fury rimmed eyes. “This is--”

“Stop,” Virgil says. He reaches forward and catches Thomas’s doll before it vanishes. 

Patton’s eyes bulge, he reaches for the doll, and Virgil… lets it go. 

Patton jumps towards the falling doll and ends up stumbling into Virgil’s arms instead, strands unravelling as he moves and shifts. 

“It’s okay to change,” Virgil says. His arms are around Patton, who’s trembling, crying, mumbling. Virgil stares at the drooping webs. “It’s time to change.” 

“I’m scared,” Patton says. “I’m s…”

“I know,” Virgil says. He can feel it, resonating deep within his chest. Patton’s fear. His anxiety. It’s a thorn in his lungs. 

It’s seconds or minutes or hours when Patton’s arms relax around him, when the tears stop flowing. When Patton pulls away, face blank. 

Virgil stares at him. Patton takes a breath, closes his eyes. “I’m going to leave.” 

“Okay,” Virgil says. He knows everyone’s dealing with these… nightmares. He can’t imagine the effect it's having on Patton. He can feel panic, anxiety, but Patton feels… everything. 

So Patton leaves. The webs have faded completely, and Virgil wonders if they’ll return any time soon. 

The floor falls. 

Virgil’s fading, he reaches, then he just lets it go. He sees code flashing across his vision. 

Instinct grips him in a sudden flash. 

Virgil jerks forwards, fingers closing around a wrist. In the nothingness, Virgil almost swallows his tongue when he sees what’s become of Logan. 

“Oh,” Virgil breathes. He pulls, fingers reaching along Logan’s sleeve until he reaches his shoulder, his neck, his head. The empty hole, the husk of a body. 

Virgil thinks he’s going to vomit. 

What _happened_ to him…?

There’s a plug. Nausea racks through his body as he reaches, grabs. Leaning, Virgil lines them up and _clicks._

Logan gasps and everything colors with sudden clarity. They fall and slam into the ground. Glass falls around them like snow, avoiding their bodies. Logan’s vision clears. His glasses are cracked, ten feet away somewhere, but Logan’s eyes are unclouded. 

Logan looks at Virgil and _beams_. Virgil almost swallows his tongue for an entirely separate reason, feeling off kilter and uncertain. _What…?_

Everything is vibrant, echoing with life despite them being alone in this… expanse. 

“You connected me,” Logan says. There’s a tint to his voice and Virgil swallows. He nods, bangs falling over his forehead. 

Logan smiles, teeth and all. “We can help the others.” 

Virgil nods again. 

“Who’s next?”

Virgil shrugs. 

Logan nods. “I will look for Deceit.” 

“Deceit?” 

“You are going after Roman,” Logan says. He nods, like everything suddenly makes perfect sense. _What happened to him…?_

“And Thomas…”

“Thomas is afraid of himself,” Logan says. His fingers rub together. “He is afraid of us.” 

Virgil closes his eyes. _And that’s that, isn’t it?_

Virgil stands up. Logan stands with him, and they look at each other. 

Logan smiles. 

Virgil, well. He tries?

Logan turns on his heel and starts walking. There’s blankness, absolutely nothing. But Virgil turns the other direction and starts. He walks and walks and walks until walls appear, and darken, and blacken, carpeting beneath his feet. He walks and then there’s a brilliant shining light and Virgil realizes with striking clarity that he’s standing in an audience. 

And on stage is a brilliant, shining Roman. 

Virgil keels over and throws up. 

Well, not really. It’s dry heaves. 

When he’s done, he walks (he can’t run, he’ll trip, he’ll screw it up, he knows it) up the house left stairs and catches a mirror walking up the house right. 

(Not a mirror.)

Roman doesn’t see either of them and when Virgil reaches forward and touches his shoulder he jerks so violently the ropes tighten ever so slightly more. 

Remus grabs Roman’s shoulders and holds him in place. “Don’t move.” 

A wheeze echoes from Roman’s lips. His eyes finally look up from his reflection on the glistening stage floor, stare glassy. 

“Relax,” Remus says. And Virgil doesn’t know where Remus finds this, doesn’t want to question the familiarity and recognition in Remus’s gaze. But Virgil drops beside Roman and gently pushes his wrist towards his neck so he’s not pulling so harshly. 

“ _Relax_ ,” Remus says, harsher this time. He grabs at Roman’s face, which Virgil thinks is rather counterintuitive to the whole _relax_ thing, and stares him down. “You need to accept help.”

Roman’s eyes squint up. His nose is scrunched. He looks like he wants to protest, to argue Remus’s point. 

Virgil’s heart breaks into a million pieces and he can’t help himself from saying “Roman, _please_ ,” the word escaping far more emotional than he intended. 

Roman turns his head (Virgil cringes at the pull of the ropes) and blinks at Virgil. 

Something on Virgil’s expression must work, because Roman’s expression crumples. His shoulders drop, arms suddenly limp. 

Remus wastes no time in severing the rope completely. Virgil tries for the chains, but he can’t seem… to break through…

Roman’s hand settles on Virgil’s, pushing him away. Virgil watches his hand, red with rope burn, carve through the chains. 

Roman stands, stumbles. Remus catches him. Virgil pushes him upright. Roman sighs, skin rubbed raw. Stray tears litter his face like stars. 

“You’re not alone,” Virgil says. _You’re not. I’m not. It’s foreign, I know. But you’re not alone._

Remus nods. Roman sags, energy spent. 

“I’ll take him,” Remus says. “It’s not every day that I get to drag a body around!”

They walk off into the wings and vanish in the blackness. The stage disappears with them, everything fading and shifting. Virgil finds himself in a cell, of sorts, Logan and Deceit sitting and talking. They glance at him with twin flashes of half recognition and quarter interest. 

“Time to go,” Logan says. He helps Deceit up. 

Deceit raises an eyebrow. “Thanks _so much_. I appreciate your help.” 

Virgil narrows his eyes, trying to decipher whatever that means. Logan seems to understand him and interpret the sentence as a compliment, anyway…? Since his lips quirk into the smallest of smiles. 

Virgil won’t get between them any time soon. But, he does know how to help Deceit out of his nightmare. 

“Like old times,” Virgil says, crouching by the barred window. 

Deceit laughs as Logan goes first. Logan wraps his hands around the bars and _bends_ , bends and bends until there’s ample room for anyone to slip through. Logan disappears. Deceit steps on Virgil’s steepled fingers. 

Standing with Deceit’s push, Virgil easily boosts Deceit to the window. Deceit uses what little energy he has left climbing through. Virgil jumps -- he jumps, catches the edge, heaves through the opening and tumbles. He falls and falls and falls, never hitting the ground. 

Then he slams into something, groaning. 

Virgil sits up. 

There’s a stretch of nothingness, then a flash of light and a shadow. Deceit and Logan are nowhere to be seen. 

Thomas barrels out of the blackness and stumbles full-on into Virgil. 

“Virgil!” Thomas says, the word slipping like a single syllable in his desperation. Thomas jumps to his feet. “We have to run. Come on!”

“No,” Virgil says. He snags Thomas’s arm before he can go. The shadow is almost here. 

“Stop, Virgil, what are you _doing?_ ” Thomas pulls frantically at his hold. “It’s almost here--!”

The shadow arrives and Thomas whimpers, ducking behind Virgil. 

“It’s you,” Virgil says. 

Thomas cries. “I know! I _know! I’m terrified!”_

“It’s you,” Virgil repeats dumbly. He points at the second Thomas, the second Thomas who looks tired, who has black sludge and ropes dripping from his wrists, chains dragging along his ankles. His shoulders are adorned with webs, hair dripping wet like he’d stumbled through a storm. A wire drapes across his torso. 

Thomas just stares, stares, stares. 

“We’re okay,” Virgil says. He points at the other Thomas. “He is done.”

Thomas, cowering behind Virgil’s shoulder, blinks, breath shaking. The other Thomas raises his hands, looking at the ropes and other adorning features, something like wonder crossing his face. 

“Go away,” Thomas says. For all that he’s trembling, his voice is steady. “I’m going to wake up. Go away.” 

The other Thomas blinks at him. Then he melts away like he’d never been there in the first place. 

Virgil breathes. The room goes fuzzy at the edges and Thomas clings to his shoulders. “Don’t go,” Thomas says. He’s crying, but the words are soft. “Please don’t go.” 

“I’m not,” Virgil says, even as Thomas is shaking and blurring with the rest of the room. “I’m a part of you.” 

“Please.” Thomas mouths the word before melting away completely, and Virgil… 

Virgil falls. 

-

Virgil surges upright with a gasp. He almost clocks someone right in the face but they jerk away just in time. Frantic, Virgil looks left, right, backwards. _Where’s -- who’s -- is everyone --_

“You’re awake,” Logan says. His voice is tinged with wonder. Virgil considers vaguely if Logan has fallen into a new appreciation for _thinking_ , after being stuck in a static state. 

Virgil nods, bangs falling over his eyes like long ago. 

“Who would’ve thought!” Remus calls. Virgil flinches, but Remus is on the other side of the room -- the _living room_ , Virgil notes with relief. “The nightmare saves us from the nightmare!”

Roman, to his right (Virgil realizes that he’s the one he almost smacked into upon waking) snorts. “Emo nightmare.” 

“Truly admirable,” Deceit drawls. He’s looking at his gloves like he’s examining his fingernails. 

Virgil peers at him. Insult, or compliment? Insult or compliment? Hm. 

A gentle hand against his left shoulder. Virgil turns, Patton smiling at him softly. “Thanks, Virgil. You always have our backs.”

“You do.” 

Virgil looks up as a hand settles on his head. Thomas smiles down at him, lips soft. “Watching out for us, Virgil. Thanks.”

Virgil blinks. His lips wobble and flick into something resembling a smile, but he’s mostly embarrassed. And relieved, honestly. 

“What a nightmare,” Thomas says. He sighs, rubs at his face. “That’s like, three whole videos of content.” 

The sides exchange glances. 

“Perhaps we can bench this particular happening,” Roman says delicately. 

“I ain’t talking about this unless you tear it from my brain,” Remus declares. Then he frowns. “Except that would be kindof fun. Nevermind. Huh.”

“I was joking,” Thomas says. “I don’t want to broadcast this, are you kidding?”

Virgil’s gaze flicks to Deceit, who looks wholly undisturbed about his influence in Thomas just moments before. 

Thomas and Roman strike up a discussion about the merits of painting vent art vs simply drawing it while Patton, beside him, starts tentatively talking with Remus, who's absolutely delighted to be discussing immoral topics with morality. 

Virgil sighs. 

They’ll be okay. 

But _god_. 

What a nightmare, huh?

  
  



End file.
